


From the Ashes

by kyo_chan



Category: Weiß Kreuz
Genre: BradSchu, F/M, Kingsman inspired, M/M, Weiss is my shipping drug
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-10
Updated: 2015-04-09
Packaged: 2018-03-22 04:01:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3714187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyo_chan/pseuds/kyo_chan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A tale of how teams are made and broken, and how nothing is ever really black and white.</p>
            </blockquote>





	From the Ashes

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry. I suck at titling, and I suck even worse at summarizing. If you've chosen to read on ahead after that much, you've made me the happiest author on the planet. Anyway, I'm totally pleased to know that the Weiss fandom is still alive and kicking. I haven't written a serious fic for it in a very long time, and it took seeing Kingsman to make a miracle happen. With that being said, I hope you enjoy!

The ever-present dull roar in Schuldig's head shushed down into a surprisingly comfortable hum as a sharply dressed man slid into the booth across from him. His neatly pressed suit and - probably silk - tie looked very unusual in the dim pub. Schuldig sat up straighter, suspicion arching his brow. The longer the man sat there with him, not saying a thing, just holding his drink, the more people around them started to watch. Just to see what would happen. It didn't seem apparent to the stranger, or maybe he just didn't care, he was drastically out of place. Schuldig inwardly bristled at the man's calm exterior and the way sharp wolf eyes watched him from behind his glasses. He couldn't tell if he was being studied or judged, and he didn't like the thought of either. 

"What?" he finally snapped in his native tongue, hand grasping the cheap beer bottle as if he'd need it to be a weapon. 

The man didn't flinch. "Schuldig," he replied, wrapping a delicious voice around the German word. 

"Not acceptin’ customers right now. And you ain’t my type anyway." Schuldig was trying. Whatever weird thing his head did with the voices around him, he couldn't focus like he normally could. Trying to feel around this man's thoughts was like trying to break through a steel wall. His expression soured further, like a sulky child. 

"I'm here to offer you a job." 

"Ha, that's a good one, mister," Schuldig scoffed, leaning back in the booth, feeling the vinyl creak under him. "A guy like _you_ is gonna offer _me_ a job, that’s rich.” He crossed his arms. “Why don’tcha  just finish your drink at someone else’s table and stop fuckin’ with me.” 

“You don’t even know what I’m here to offer you.” 

“Listen, not t’be rude or anything, mister, but I don’t care what you got to offer me. I don’t want your work. I got payin’ customers with pretty curves and endless legs. Sheltered ladies, you feel me? That want nothin’ more than to forget about their husbands for a few hours and be with a man that really knows what they want without havin’ to ask or eat their cookin’. That suit is nice, and I’m sure you’ve got more’n a few Euros on you, but I said once y’ain’t my type, so take your board room frustrations out on someone who wants you on ‘em.” 

“Oh come now. It’s not as if you can read my mind, can you?” He held Schuldig’s gaze as he took a sip of his drink, and something about the cadence of his words, the way his eyes narrowed ever so slightly, it made Schuldig tense. “I like to think of things on a more grand scale, and you have much more potential than that. However, if it is your choice to remain here with your talents squandered on listening to whispered fantasies in the backs of minds, of being surrounded by the chaotic sound of a bustling city rather than learning how make your world a quieter place, then by all means.” He finished the drink and set his glass down, shifting to get out of his seat. 

Schuldig felt like he couldn’t breathe. This man talked like he understood, like he _knew_. :: _Who_ are _you?_ :: 

“The only way you’ll know, is if you accept the interview.”

His eyes went wide, words froze in his throat. _He does know_. The only person he had ever met who realized he could do something other people couldn’t. That man was getting up and looking for all the world like he would leave that little tavern far behind. Goddamn, but Schuldig couldn’t let him go now, and he supposed that was the whole point behind every word the stranger had said. To make matters worse, with every step away from the booth, the white noise of the bar grew louder in Schuldig’s head. Now he could pick up words here and there; it swelled up like the tide coming in, and when this man walked away, it would hit him and drag him under. He took the bait, hated himself for giving in. 

“Wait.” 

Schuldig got a good look at the wide set of the man’s shoulders, framed so perfectly by his suit jacket. Broad and sturdy, fuck, he didn’t even turn around to acknowledge him, only stopping in his departure and standing with his back to Schuldig. For some reason, that intrigued him so, all while making him want to swing hard enough to knock his fancy glasses across the room. 

“I don’t wanna have this conversation here.” Too many people whose hearing got very good when it was dirt on someone. 

“Then let’s go somewhere with a bit more privacy, shall we?” 

~*~ 

Their shoulders touched in the cramped back seat of the taxi. It was awkward to him to be in such close, familiar quarters and to have his hands folded uncomfortably in his lap. They were more used to being under skirts, carding through a woman’s hair while he extracted what she wanted and put the ideas back into her head by whispering them in dirty words against her ear. The man, who still hadn’t told him his name, called out a hotel Schuldig knew well enough, and the driver quirked an eyebrow at the redhead, clearly surprised to see him there with some dandy and looking like a fish out of water. He tried to ignore the surreal weirdness of it and focus on what was important. 

The silence. 

Yes, pressed up against a stranger who knew too much, Schuldig thought he should have been able to nestle himself in the reasons and motives in this bastard’s head. Maybe heard the confused inner commentary of the driver as they headed into the better part of the city. But no. The only thing Schuldig had to focus on was the taxi’s engine, the rush of scenery as they passed, and - for the first time in a long time - only his own frantic thoughts. He shouldn’t have found it so terrifying. 

He didn’t offer up any money to pay for the cab as he got out of it, which seemed like something his new companion had expected. They walked right through the lobby and into the elevator, riding up a few floors, and then Schuldig committed the number of the room they went into to memory. For all the good it would do him anyway. Who would care if some whore got murdered in a random hotel room? 318 to be exact - it happened every day. 

“So if you don’t wanna fuck me, then what am I doing here?” No one could ever say Schuldig didn’t prefer the direct approach. 

The man didn’t answer at first, taking off his jacket to reveal a waistcoat beneath, hanging the garment on one of the hangers in the modest coat closet by the door. Fuck, was that the chain of a pocket watch? Who did this guy think he was? 

“Sascha Brandt.” 

Schuldig’s blood ran cold, and his lips pressed into a firm line. No one had called him that in years. 

“My name is Brad Crawford. You are here because I have been sent to offer you a job. It has nothing to do with your current profession.” He said it as if Schuldig were a banker or a grocery store clerk. Anything but a picky prostitute with a special trick. There was no scorn in the word, and it made Schuldig suspicious all over again. The grandeur wasn’t really appreciated when he wanted to know what the fuck was going on. “In fact, the only way it relates is that you will be using the same ability you do now, but for different things. I assure you, the pay will be better, and it will come with training you so desperately need.” 

Schuldig decided to play dumb. “When y’say ‘ability’--” 

“I mean your talent for reading minds.” 

So much for that. “Assumin’ I don’t just think you’re crazy for suggestin’ I can ‘read minds’,” the air quotes were childish, but Schuldig wasn’t feeling particularly charitable at the moment, “Why should I buy into your gig about work and training and pay? Why me? Can’t you go find some other mind reader? Maybe one that wears fancy suits like you and talks all-knowing.” 

Brad moved to take a seat in one of the chairs, crossing one leg over the other, hands on the arms, looking like he had seated himself on a fucking throne. Arrogant bastard. 

“Let me be frank with you, _Schuldig_. You are one of the strongest telepaths to crop up in the last decade, or so I’ve been told. I spoke for you first because I have Seen you at my side. But if you say no to me, I can assure you that I won’t be the last to come soliciting to recruit you.” There was a slight change to Crawford’s features, Schuldig caught sight of it in a split second and almost wondered if he was imagining the distaste he saw before it flickered away. “You will like those other visits far less.” 

“Is that a threat, _Mister_ Crawford,” Schuldig sneered. “Or you tellin’ me you can see the future?” 

That _smile_. Schuldig would never forget it.

“Yes.”


End file.
